Of War, Betrayal, and Love
by Shiroyamimaru
Summary: AU. The date is 2035, this section has been closed off from the world for 335 years. They have their own countries and cities, the main powers (and the ones fighting the war at the moment) are Secetin and Eialis. France is a Secitinian refugee medic working for Eialis. With nothing but his knowledge of medicine, a quick wit, and some of his mismatched friends, will he survive it?
1. Camp

**A/N: Yo. This was originally published on FictionPad. I'm really happy with how this turned out, so I'm publishing it here too! I really hope you guys enjoy it!**

 **Summary: The date is 2035, and this section has been closed off from the world for 335 years. It has made it's own advances in technology (though considerably slower than the world they're separate from). They have their own countries and cities, the main powers (and the ones fighting the war at the moment) are Secetin and Eialis. France is a Secitinian refugee medic working for Eialis. With nothing but his knowledge of medicine, a quick wit, and some of his mismatched friends, will he survive it? And will he finally come to like the sarcastic captain of his, or will they hate each other forever? FrUK, RoChu, GerIta, Spamano, SwissAus, SuFin, CuCan, DenIce, possible Turpan and GerPru.**

* * *

France looked around at his new surroundings. The camp stretches out for a mile or so, surrounded by tall mountains, there is a stretch of uninterrupted grass and flowers that go on as far as the eye can see, simply waving in the wind. The moon hung in the sky like the lantern of a weary sentinel. The humid summer air sat like a sluggish river, interrupted only by only the warm breeze. It could have been very calming, had the army tents not been there.

Shouldering his medical kit, he started the trek to the camp.

* * *

"That's it, aru! I give up!" China threw his hands up in the air. His honey colored eyes were squeezed shut tightly, and the fist signs of exhaustion were starting to take their toll on his small body.

He shifted himself in his chair, and stood up. Before he could even take a step, however, he was swept off his feet. "Allow me, da?" Purple eyes that simply sparkled with mischief stared down at him. China yawned and laid his head against the other man's chest. "It's not too far, aru..." China passed out. "So cute~." He smiled as he watched China. "Well, I better go, captain. Should let him sleep, da?" A man with blond hair looked up. "Yes." He said. "But Russia." Russia stopped at the door and listened. "We'll need him to help as soon as he's recovered from fatigue." Russia nodded with a smile.

"Da. General England ser."

* * *

"Excuse moi? Is this the right tent to see chef militaire Angleterre?" The guard, used to people speaking strange languages, simply nodded and asked him; "Are you the new medic, France?"

"Oui, monsieur."

The guard nodded again and let him in with a bow.

The tent was beautifully simple. In the center sat a wooden table surrounded by satin cushions. There were maps and blankets scattered around, a mess of bright colors and lamplight. In the center of it all sat a man. He isn't too tall, and he has blond hair and sparkling emerald eyes. A tea saucer sat on the table, and the cup was raised to the man's lips. He glanced up at France briefly, before taking an almost dainty sip, and setting down his cup.

"So you're France, huh. Never expected someone so flashy to be a medic." He nodded to France's blue coat.

"Excuse moi, monsieur Angleterre. I never expected the general to be such a salude."

England shot him a glare, and France smirked.

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

"... Why are you here?"

"Eh?" France looked confused.

"You heard me, git! Why are you here?"

France sighed. "I'm a medic, I treat people. You needed a medic, I'm here."

England stood up, and walked around the table so he was right in France's face. France could feel their breath mingling, and their lips were so close if he had leaned forward just a bit, their lips would touch. He was jerked back to the present by England's voice. "You know that's not what I mean." He stared into those serious green orbs and sighed. He turned around and picked up his bag.

"My brother is in the army as well. He's a master strategist, but he always gets overlooked because he's quiet and never speaks up. I want to help him if I can."

England sat back, and France slid a picture over to him.

"My brother, mon petit Canada."

The picture showed a boy with golden hair and a small curl going off the top of his head. Taking the picture, England stared at it a few seconds longer.

"You're a refugee from Sectin, aren't you."

France flinched.

"Don't speak of that place."

England leaned closer.

"And why not?"

France's eyes wandered to the picture on the table. The smiling face stared back at him wordlessly.

"Do you know mon ami monsieur indécise Prusse, celui qui ne prend jamais parti?"

England took out a small device. "Say that again."

"Mon ami monsieur indécise Prusse, celui qui ne prend jamais parti?"

He read the words that appeared on the screen.

Though France himself couldn't read it, he knew what it would say.

 _My friend Mr. indecisive Prussia, the one who never takes sides._

"Mr. indecisive Prussia?"

England gave France a quizzical look.

"Oui."

"The riddle spinner?"

France nodded.

"It was he who helped us escape from that damn place. But in return, he helped awaken the potential of my cute little brother."

"Why's that a bad thing?"

"Because he dragged mon frère onto the front lines with him."

The warlord sighed with a slight smile, looking away.

"My brother is on the front lines as well. But, he's on the other side. He's working for the enemy."


	2. A Voice Heard By No One

_He's gone, he's gone and I can't find him._

"Where is he?!" The shout echoed through the stone hallways of the Sectinian military base.

A man with spiked up blond hair and an axe threw a grunt against a wall, cracking it.

"Sotapäällikkö Tanska! Please stop!" A man ran to him, a rifle clutched in his left hand. With his military uniform, he wore a white beret - the cap of an artillery commander. "P-please stop! You're going to destroy the base at this rate!"

The first man turned to him with a crazed and furious look in his eyes. "I-I can't go on like this..." He sank to his knees. "I... Need to find him. Please understand, Finland."

Finland gave a small smile. "I understand, really. He's our friend too! We all want to see him again. In the meantime, we want our sotapäällikkö back, the one who's always smiling! We want you back to yourself. Okay, Denmark?"

Denmark looked up at him, tears falling from his cheeks. "I'd do anything to get him back..."

Finland nodded. "And we'll help you. Stop destroying the base and killing people though, okay?"

Denmark shakily stood, and picked up his axe with a shadow covering his face. He slowly followed Finland down the halls.

At a window looking up to the obnoxiously blue sky, he stopped.

 _"Hvor er du? Min kærlighed ... Island."_ He murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

.

.

.

The sound of slowly dripping water burned it's way into the ears of the one who listened.

His normally sparkling purple eyes were dull and blank, staring somewhere beyond the concrete walls of his cell.

His silvery brown hair hadn't been brushed in a long time, and it was matted, but he didn't seem to care. He bobbed his head to a silent tune that no one else could hear.

Heavy handcuffs hung around his thin wrists as he sat, back pressed to the metal bars that stopped him from going the one place he wanted to go - home.

His breathing was shallow and the frown on his face only expressed a fraction of his inner turmoil.

 _"Vinsamlegast finna mér ... ástin mín, Danmörku."_ His hoarse voice muttered, heard by no one.

.

.

.

The sweet notes of a piano rang throughout the concert hall. Enrapturing all who listened, they flowed perfectly, tinged with the musician's painful emotions, sorrow and loneliness echoed hollowly as the undertone. As a result, most of the audience silently cried with the music.

The pianist seemed lost, like a boat searching for a lighthouse to guide it to shore. His eyes were full of regret and sorrow, and his lips were set into a frown.

In the hallway, not exactly inside the concert hall, a man sat cross-legged, tracing a crack in the ceiling with his eyes. Across his lap sat a rifle. He drew circles on it's hilt.

 _"I'm sorry... Austria."_ His quiet voice faded before it reached any listening ears.

He slowly stood, letting the light fall on his white cap. Letting it reflect on the badge on his army jacket, a white plus sign on a red background. And the little embroidered name, _'Switzerland'_.

.

.

.

France was shown to his tent after a long talk with England about their respective brothers.

The tent was simple, but clean and homey. There was a cot for him in the corner, along with rows of cots for patients. In the corner there was a little desk with a file cabinets so he could document injuries.

He set down his kit on his cot with a dramatic sigh. "Today was hard, frère." He looked down at the picture in his hand.

He set it on his nightstand. After changing into his pajamas, he didn't even bother to get under the covers, and just stared up the cloth roof, tracing it's seams with his eyes.

He was pulled into memories.

.

.

.

 _He was running._

 _He couldn't stop, no. They'd catch them if they stopped._

 _He held the hand of a younger boy, who was silent and panting from running so long._

 _"B-big brother France..." The boy murmured._

 _France looked back at his exhausted face. "Hang in there, Canada," France murmured back. "We're almost there."_

 _The boy nodded even though he looked about ready to pass out._

 _Finally they reached a small house, and France frantically pounded on the door._

 _It was quickly opened by a young man with silver hair. "Come in! Quickly!" The man hissed, closing the door behind them._

 _Canada collapsed on the floor, and France caught him. The silver haired man grimaced. "Here, let him use the guest room, it's the most ready to accommodate someone right now. You take my room, and I'll use my cousin's, since he's away."_

 _France nodded his thanks. "Much appreciated, mon ami."_

 _The man nodded. "You'll be fine now. You're in good hands."_

 _France smiled. "I know. Thank you."_

.

.

.

The flashback faded into darkness as France fell asleep.


End file.
